


Laundry Day

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finds Dean's clerical shirt and decides to try it on.  Dean approves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

> Post-season 8, MoL bunker.

Once Castiel figured out how to do the laundry, it became a chore he enjoyed.  There's a certain joy in being left to his own devices in a warm room with piles of warm clothes that need folding and he quickly discovered that no matter how many times they're washed, clothes somehow still smell like their owner.  Sam taught him to separate the laundry by color after the great-pink-socks-and-underwear-mishap, but it was Castiel's idea to further separate by owner.  Sam just laughed and shrugged and chalked it up to "OCD", whatever that is.

The truth is that one of Castiel's favorite parts of doing laundry is burying his face in the clothes fresh from the dryer and inhaling deeply until his head is swimming with the scent of soap and fabric softener and Dean.  That is precisely what he's doing when he finds a shirt he's never seen Dean wear.  It's black and long-sleeved with a high collar and Castiel recognizes it instantly as a priest's frock.  He tries to conjure a picture of Dean wearing it and finds himself blushing as he folds it and sets it aside from the rest of the clothes he's folding.

When he's finished sniffing and folding the load, he piles everything in a basket and hauls it off to Dean's room.  Castiel takes certain liberties with Dean's things that he doesn't with Sam's - for instance, putting away laundry.  Dean had grumbled at first about how Castiel never put anything where it belonged even though he'd carefully memorized where Dean kept everything and made sure to put it in exactly the same place.  It wasn't until Dean started muttering about 'too much fabric softener' that Castiel decided he didn't  _really_  mind any of it at all.

With everything except the priest's frock tucked neatly into Dean's dresser, Castiel takes a moment to dig through the drawer of miscellaneous articles of clothing until he finds the collar that goes with it.  His finds in tow, he returns to his own room and strips out of his t-shirt.  He smiles at his reflection in the mirror as he pulls on the thick shirt.  It's still warm from the dryer and feels somehow heavy with purpose as it engulfs him in the scent of clean linen and the man who owns it.

The shirt is too wide across his chest when it's buttoned; it’s a loose fit Castiel tries to fix when he tucks it into his jeans.  When he’s finally satisfied, he sets about inserting the collar, a task that's much more difficult than he anticipated.  He's almost got it seated when Dean's face appears beside his own in the mirror, chin rested to the top of Castiel's shoulder.  He'd been so focused on the collar that he hadn't heard Dean approach.

"Forgive me, Father.."

It's a husky whisper, Dean's lips brushing the curve of Castiel's ear and making him shiver.

" _Oh_.."

It's more breath than word, Castiel's throat suddenly feeling tight as warmth spreads up his neck and across his cheeks.  Dean's hands are on his hips, then sliding up his sides as he continues to fumble with the collar, his now trembling fingers growing less and less cooperative.  He swallows, feels his adam's apple bob against the recalcitrant collar.

"I'm sorry..  I should have asked.."

Dean pushes Castiel's hands away gently and makes quick work of attaching the collar.  His fingers dance the line between skin and fabric as he takes his time straightening it, pressing kisses to the hollow beneath Castiel's earlobe as he does so.

"Don't hear me complaining, do ya?"  Another whisper, more hoarse than the last.

"No, but.."

Castiel raises his hand to run a fingertip along the edge of the collar, his hand catching Dean's in the process as Dean nibbles his earlobe.  His objections die on his lips as he tilts his head away, baring his neck and reveling in the feeling of the collar digging into his skin.  He swallows again and closes his eyes, focusing on the drag of Dean's stubble against his skin as Dean kisses and nips and teases his tongue at just the place where fabric meets skin.  Castiel gasps at the sensation, at soft lips and rough stubble and the rumble of a growl in Dean's chest pressed against his back.

When Dean's fingers move away from his throat, Castiel opens his eyes.  Dean's hands, warm and splayed slide infuriatingly slowly down his chest as he catches Dean's eye in the mirror and holds it.  Dean watches Castiel's face while he smooths the frock down and just from the simple slow glide of palms over the curve of his ribs and the flat of his stomach; Castiel's breath goes shallow and ragged.  Dean takes his time checking to make sure the shirt is properly tucked in.  His fingers are rougher on Castiel's hips, pulling this way and that, dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans.

With the unmistakable press of Dean's hardness against Castiel's ass and the kisses to his neck turning to sharp nips interspersed with hot gasped breaths and barely audible moans, Castiel's cock hardens.  He feels an illicit, thrilled rush to be wearing the clothes of a holy man while Dean's teeth scrape his earlobe.  Dean's hips start to grind in a familiar rhythm as one hand settles on Castiel’s stomach and the other over his pounding heart. 

Castiel groans when Dean's breath hitches and his hips press harder; he reaches to twine his fingers with Dean's.  The heat across his cheeks grows and he sees his reflection in the mirror sporting a deep blush as he pushes their hands down over the tensed muscles of his stomach.  His hips jerk into the touch when Dean's palm presses against his cock, fingers wrapping roughly over the bulge.  Castiel's voice is thick, burring in his throat, and Dean's eyes go wide to match a slow-spreading grin when he murmurs, "You need to have something to confess to, Dean."


End file.
